OF COURSE, THAT possibility had occurred to me and it had fluttered briefly around my brain like a lost moth. But it seemed so unlikely it hadn’t settled.
“Who might have done that, Mrs. Jessop?”
“I have no idea, but we can rule out nothing can we?” She answered sharply, but it was impossible to determine if she seriously believed her assertion or not.
What was clear was that she was not about to give in easily. A hero has to die a hero. Nothing more, nothing less. I knew the local police well enough to be sure they would not reopen a case unless they absolutely had to. I was about to turn down the job as gently as I could when I was saved by the bell. Literally. The telephone rang. I excused myself and answered. It was Gramps. His voice was loud as usual. He’d never got used to the idea that he could speak normally. I wasn’t in another country where volume was necessary.
“Lottie. You forgot your umbrella.”
“Sorry I’m busy at the moment. Can I call you back?”
“Ha. I know that tone of voice. You’re dealing with a difficult client, aren’t you?”
“That is correct.”
“Ha. I could tell. Call me back when you’re finished. Remember what I always tell you.”
“And what is that?”
“When it rains, you’ll get wet unless you have your umbrella.” Gramps chuckled at his own joke. It was so absurd that under different circumstances, I would have laughed too.
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll call you back.”
“Oh, and Lottie …”
“Yes?”
“Don’t take on anything you don’t feel good about.”
We hung up, but the call had been a welcome interruption.
“My apologies,” I said.
The senior Mrs. Jessop sniffed, removed a black-edged handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her nose. I couldn’t quite tell if she disapproved of the interruption or if she was reacting to the smell of cooking onions which was beginning to drift through the room. My neighbour, Mr. Patchell, for economic reasons, was forced to live out of his office and he was starting to make his breakfast. As well as the onions, the sound of music was coming through. Sometimes he played his cello. Never mind angels playing harps, in my opinion, a human playing the cello was as close to heavenly music as you can get while you’re still alive. Mr. Patchell had been a professional cellist in his native Poland, but here he eked out a living repairing watches and jewellery.
I was closer to the connecting wall than the Jessops who, so far, didn’t seem to have noticed the music. I have to admit that for a few moments, I was distracted from the situation I was dealing with. Perhaps because of the necessity of paying attention to his frying onions, he didn’t play for very long.
Mrs. Jessop put away her handkerchief. Before we could continue, the music started up again.
Mrs. Jessop glanced at me with a slightly raised eyebrow.
“What is that?”
“My neighbour is playing his gramophone.”
This morning, Mr. Patchell had chosen to play “Stormy Weather.” It was a melancholy song at the best of times, and Ethel Waters’s velvet voice seemed to wrap around the three of us like a soft shroud.
I was just about to apologize for the intrusion when Mrs. Jessop abruptly stretched out her hands in front of her. She stared at her own gloved fingers.
“Gerald loved music. He was an accomplished piano player.”
She lowered her hands back to her lap.
Accomplished pianist indeed. Probably bloody brilliant. Three fingers of the right hand are stumps.
Ethel whispered through the walls, words to the effect that she could not go on because all she had in life was gone.
Mrs. Jessop appeared to listen for a moment, then she leaned forward in the chair.
“Miss Frayne. I appreciate what you are saying, and I realize this job might put you in an awkward position. However, I promise you I will respect whatever conclusion you come to.”
She said this, having removed the bone-hard shield of wealth and privilege. I liked her far more.
“May I make this suggestion,” she continued. “The police have released Gerald’s body. The funeral home will pick him up from the morgue.” Underneath the veil, she wiped her eyes. “We hope to have a funeral as soon as possible, but that might not be the case. We are Anglicans and according to the doctrine of the church, as a suicide, Gerald will not be given the funeral rites nor will he be buried in the church graveyard where both his father and grandfather lie.”
That put another wrinkle on the senior Mrs. Jessop’s need to prove her son did not die by his own hand.
“The detective has said he will return us Gerald’s effects. He is due to come at three o’clock today. Perhaps you could meet with him? You also have our permission to speak to our servants. If after that, you still feel there is no point in pursuing the matter, I will let it drop. We will have to make other arrangements for the burial.”
“Fair enough.” I pulled over my notebook. I addressed Ellen. “I’d like to take down some details. Would you mind giving me your account of what happened, Mrs. Jessop?”
I would have liked to question Ellen more, but this wasn’t the right time. She must be close to forty but, even now, I could see she had been a pretty young woman of what? Twenty-one or less when she had married the handsome Gerald? After only two months of marriage, she had then had to live with the result of his injuries for eighteen years. It must have been tough being the wife of a severely disfigured man who wouldn’t go out in daytime and who became dependent on alcohol and morphine.
My questions didn’t take long. The senior Mrs. Jessop confirmed the events as Ellen had described them.
I finished and put down my pen. To my surprise, Mrs. Jessop actually mustered up a smile of sorts behind her veil. I seemed to have won her over, I’m not quite sure why.
Unexpectedly, she said, “It’s likely going to rain all day. Rather than getting soaked again, I’ll send the car to pick you up. Can you be ready at two o’clock?”
I could.
With various bobbing of heads and adjusting of veils, they left. In spite of everything, the senior Mrs. Jessop seemed a little happier. I seriously doubted I could lift her burden totally, but I guessed she was a woman who could deal with certainty better than the opposite.
In their absence, I could hear Mr. Patchell’s record continue; Ethel was singing about there being gloom and misery everywhere when it rains and the weather is stormy.
There was the sound of a scratch as Mr. Patchell moved the needle arm. Then silence.
* * *
I ROLLED A fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter and typed my report. I had taken down Ellen’s account verbatim. She was less difficult to follow when she got into describing the true drama of what had happened. She had a rather poetic way of speaking which is rather unusual. I added a few ellipses to illustrate the ebb and flow of her narrative.
CONFIDENTIAL. Monday, November 2, 1936. FILE OF
MRS. PRESTON JESSOP. 31 PEMBROKE STREET, TORONTO. TEL. MAIN 683.
ACCOUNT OF MRS. GERALD JESSOP. (widow of deceased)
I was awakened shortly before six o’clock on Friday morning (October 30) by the sound of Duffy (the dog) barking. Usually when she is so persistent, she needs to go out. Sometimes Gerald is so deeply asleep he doesn’t hear her. I got up and went to Gerald’s room to see what was happening. Duffy was scratching at the door, Gerald was nowhere in sight. I could see his bed was unmade. I went to the bathroom and knocked. There was no answer so I went in. Gerald was lying in the bathtub. He had sunk down in the water. It was obvious even to my eyes that he was dead. His skin was grey and he was completely still in a way that only death can confer. His hair was floating on the water around his head. Duffy was trying to get out, so I picked her up and ran out to fetch Sam (his valet). He was not in his room. Mamma (Mrs. Preston Jessop) also sleeps on this floor, but it was my instinct to fetch Sam first. He had much experience in the war. He must have heard the dog and my footsteps because he came running up the stairs. He had been making his breakfast in the kitchen. I had difficulty in speaking and could only point at Gerald’s room. Sam could see immediately that something was terribly wrong, so he gestured to me to stay where I was and ran into the room. I did in fact stay in the hall. He emerged a few minutes later. “I want you to fetch Wilson at once (the chauffeur). Tell him there seems to have been a dreadful accident. He should telephone the police station immediately and then come up here.” I asked him what I should do about Duffy. He said to take her downstairs and put her in the kitchen where she has a pen. “Should I rouse Mrs. Jessop?” I then asked. We both knew Gerald was dead and we needed police and medical assistance, but we also had her welfare in mind. “Let’s wait until the ambulance arrives. I don’t want her to see him the way he is.”
That seemed like a sensible proposal so I hurried as fast as I could to get Wilson.
(At this point in the narrative, she lost her composure. It took several minutes before she was ready to continue.)
The police ambulance arrived quickly. The coroner, a Dr. Rogers, was with them and a detective. I did not want to get in the way so I stayed in Mamma’s room. She had been awakened by all the commotion, but Sam insisted she not go into the bathroom. It was very difficult to persuade her, but I knew that was the right decision. Finally, Detective Murdoch came to speak to her. He was very kind. He said that Dr. Rogers had confirmed that Gerald was indeed dead. He said, given the circumstances, there would have to be an investigation. Mamma requested that she be allowed to see Gerald’s body. Detective Murdoch conferred with the coroner and they gave permission. I asked if I could accompany her and they agreed I could. I therefore went with her into the bedroom. They had moved Gerald’s body to the bed and covered him with a sheet up to his neck.
(More upset.)
“What happened?” Mamma asked. The detective said they couldn’t make a final appraisal until there was an autopsy, but it did look as if Gerald had committed suicide. “Did he leave a note?” Detective Murdoch said there was a note on the bedside table, but he couldn’t let her touch it at the moment. However, if she wished, he would read it to her. She said she did so wish. She said then as she has repeated since that she could not believe Gerald had killed himself. The detective said they would do a thorough investigation. He expressed his deepest regrets and asked if he could have her doctor sent for. She said that for the moment she would prefer to be with her maid and myself. We returned to her room while they removed Gerald’s body. The entire household was awake by now and Mrs. Jones was able to comfort Mamma as best she could. She has been in our employ for twenty years. We have all been coping until receiving the report from Dr. Rogers which you have seen. I myself am ready to accept these findings.
That was essentially it.
Given the facts as presented I could see no possibility, other than suicide or misadventure, which we could prove. As there was a clear suicide note, we had to accept intention and there was no way to know if Gerald had changed his mind at the last minute, but succumbed to the drink and the drug. At my request, Mrs. Jessop wrote a letter giving me authority to view the body and to speak to the police detective in charge of the case.
She agreed to our usual terms: two dollars an hour, not including travel time, and any additional expenses such as printed documents which are to be itemized.
I finished the report and filed one copy in the filing cabinet, the other in my desk drawer. Mr. Gilmore and I always shared reports on our cases.
I was hoping he’d call in today. He was on what he’d termed a leave of absence. “I will be incommunicado for a little while, I’m afraid, Miss Frayne, but I leave the running of the office in your quite capable hands.” It was all a bit abstruse and he hadn’t really explained, but given what he had gone through in July, I didn’t begrudge him time off. Far from it.
Initially, I’d rather enjoyed the feeling of independence his absence had conferred, but it was going on for two weeks now and I was hoping he’d be back soon. When we weren’t out on a case, we had fallen into a pleasant routine. He’d sit in his back room, sipping coffee and reading all the daily newspapers. This was an important part of our work. He claimed that no potential client would have faith in our abilities if we were ignorant of what was going on and who was doing what. “Private investigators act as physicians of the body politic. We know what is healthy and what is diseased.” Mr. Gilmore liked these pithy little sayings. As he was reading, he often called out bits of news. I missed that, too. As well as forgetting my umbrella, I’d neglected to pick up the usual newspapers. I was curious to know what was happening in the so-called Toronto Stork Derby. Not to mention the latest escapades of our king. These superficialities were temporary distractions from the increasingly dire news filtering through from Europe. Armistice Day was coming up soon, when we’d stand together, quietly and respectfully, many of us weeping, and we’d remember the dead and the maimed, like Gerald Jessop. No wonder he’d found this time of year difficult.
It was after ten o’clock now. Oops. I almost forgot I’d told Gramps I’d call him back. I was just reaching for the telephone when there was the sound of the daily post being dropped through our letter box. I must admit that ever since our nasty episode in the summer, the sound of the envelopes sliding through the slot made me a tad apprehensive.
I went to retrieve them. Only three envelopes today, one looking like a cheque. Great. To my surprise, the second envelope was addressed to me. The return address was Mr. Gilmore’s. I opened it. Short and to the point, it was written in typical tidy Thaddeus Gilmore style and it was utterly peculiar.
My dear Miss Frayne,
I wonder if you could locate accommodation for me. It will be for a small family, a man and a woman and two children, a girl aged thirteen and a boy aged twelve. The best place would be close to the area of my residence on Phoebe Street. I am not at liberty to disclose the names of this family, but you can sign a lease in my name. If you need to, use one of the company cheques for the deposit. A modest two-bedroom apartment or the equivalent would be the best and should be available at once.
Yours truly,
T. Gilmore
I was used to my boss’s reticence, but this was obscure to say the least. Who was this family? I assumed they weren’t in the city to do their own search. I also had to assume the letter was connected with his mysterious absence. I turned the envelope and paid attention to the franking. It had been posted in Munich.
Staring at it, sniffing it, holding it up to the light, yielded no further clues so I put it in the desk drawer. I trusted Mr. Gilmore. I knew there would be a good reason for this strange mission.
Oops again. Gramps! I got put through.
He answered after two rings, his voice as usual too loud. I reminded him constantly that he should answer with the number, but he never remembered.
“Hello. Who’s calling?’
“It’s me.”
“What kind of me?”
This was a hoary joke, but he loved it. I went along.
“How many ‘me’s do you know?”
“Dozens.”
“Well this me is your granddaughter, Charlotte.”
“Lottie! What took you so long?”
His voice was genuinely anxious.
“Sorry, Gramps, I had to write up a report while it was fresh in my mind.”
“The difficult client?”
“That’s right.”
“You can tell me about it later.”
“Okay. Aren’t you going to meet me for lunch at the Paradise?”
“I don’t think so, pet. It’s raining cats and dogs. I’ve got a nice fire going and my programme is coming on soon.”
“Okay. How’s your boil?”
“Sore.”
“Don’t pick at it.”
“I’m not. “
“I know you, Gramps. You’re probably picking at it. The doctor said you’ve got to let it burst on its own.”
“Stop fussing.”
The odour of Mr. Patchell’s onions was stronger than ever. My eyes were starting to sting.
“What are you going to have for your lunch?”
“I’ll cook up some bacon and eggs most likely.”
“Sounds good. Don’t forget to turn the stove off when you’re done.”
“Lottie! Cut it out.”
“You forgot last week.”
“For a minute. I forgot for a minute.”
“That’s all it takes.”
“Will you stop fussing. I’ve not lost my marbles yet.”
Gramps is all the family I have. To tell the truth, since Gran died so suddenly, two years ago, I always have the nagging fear he might leave me as well. I do fuss over him, I admit it.
We hung up.
I was just putting on my still damp coat when the telephone rang again. Thinking it was Gramps with a follow-up comment, which was typical of him, I forgot myself for a moment.
“What now?”
The man’s voice on the other end of the line was gravelly.
“Who is this?”
Certainly not Gramps calling.
“So sorry. You have reached the office of T. Gilmore and Associates. Charlotte Frayne speaking.”
“Is Gilmore there?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Gilmore is not in the office at the moment, can I be of assistance?”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Not immediately. Is there anything I can help you with?”
There was a brief silence. “You’re a woman, I presume.”
I bit back a sarcastic retort referencing eunuchs. “You are correct in that assumption, sir. I am Mr. Gilmore’s associate, Charlotte Frayne.”
I waited while he contemplated the magnitude of my response.
“That might be even better,” the man continued. Same harsh voice. This time, I also detected a hint of an accent. European, I thought.
“You are a trained investigator I presume?”
“Correct again, sir.”
“Good. I have a job for you.”
“All right. And what is that job, may I ask?”
“I own a manufacturing company. We make high-class women’s clothes.”
He stopped and cleared his throat. “I’ll get straight to the point.”
“Please do. I far prefer directness.”
Stop, it, Charlotte, we need the work.
He didn’t seem put off by my snippy response. Maybe he didn’t notice.
“One of my workers is trying to cause trouble.”
“I see.” Of course, I didn’t see. “Causing trouble” covered a wide range of possibilities. “Can you elaborate, sir?”
“I suspect I’m harbouring a commie agitator,” he continued. “Might be more than one. I think they’re trying to organize a union. Get the women to come out on strike. I can’t afford that. There’s enough competition in this trade without stoppages allowing the others to slip in.”
I made an agreeing type of noise.
“What?”
“Nothing, sir. Please continue.”
“I need somebody to come in and expose the troublemakers.”
“And you thought a private investigator might the person to do that?”
I could almost see him snarl. “That’s your line of work isn’t it?”
“On occasion.”
This wasn’t the first time I been asked to do undercover work, but intervening in labour and management affairs wasn’t particularly something I wanted to take on.
The man virtually barked at me. “So do you want the job or not? There are other companies I can approach.”
“I’d like a few more particulars first. For one thing you haven’t given me your name.”
“Didn’t I?”
He sounded genuinely surprised as if everybody must know who he was.
“I’m Saul Rosenthal. You can ask your boss if you want a reference. We know each other.”
A pleasant manner was definitely not in this man’s repertoire. But as Mr. Gilmore said, “If we only took on jobs for people we liked, we’d go broke fast.”
“I’ll hire you for a week,” Rosenthal continued. “Regular rates. You can come on board as one of the workers. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open then report back to me about what’s going on.”
“What if there is nothing to report?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if there are no agitators stirring up trouble?”
Another pause and for the first time, a trace of humour in the voice.
“Then that would be a relief and I can sleep soundly. So yes or no? If there is a rotten apple, better to toss it out sooner rather than later before it affects the entire barrel. You’d have to start at once,” said the gravel voice. “I can’t afford to wait.”
At this point I expected that the Jessop job wouldn’t last long. Better to be overbooked than under. It had been a lean month.
“All right. I accept.”
“You’ll need to get yourself hired as one of the employees. Can you come by today?”
“What time?”
“Noon? There’s a lunch break then.”
“Okay.”
“Come to the shop. Speak to the supervisor. Convince him to hire you. Can you handle that?”
“I’ll have to, won’t I?”
“We don’t ask for a lot. As long as you move and breathe, we’ll hire you.”
And fire you if you cause trouble, I thought to myself.
“How many employees do you have, sir?”
“Nineteen. Are you on or not?”
“I’ll accept the assignment.”
“Okay. What is your fee? Gilmore always goes on about reasonable rates.”
“We charge two dollars an hour.”
“What! I could probably do a better job myself.”
Naturally I was about to tell him to go ahead and do just that, but I refrained.
He snapped at me. “I’ll pay you a dollar fifty. No extras.”
“Make that a dollar seventy-five and I’ll accept.”
I wasn’t sure if Mr. Gilmore would be wringing his hands or rejoicing. It had been a lean month for the agency.
I heard Mr. Rosenthal scowl.
“All right. The address is one-sixty-seven Spadina Avenue. East side. Just above Queen Street. Got that?”
“Got it. And the name of your company?”
“Superior Ladies’ Clothes.”
Appropriate name.
“Report to the supervisor. His name is Klein.”
“What shall I tell him?”
“Nothing specific. This must be strictly between you and me. We’re looking to hire new workers. You’ll have to convince him you’ll suit.”
“And if I don’t?”
Rosenthal almost chuckled. “No job. But if you can sell yourself to him, the other workers will probably accept you too.”
I didn’t particularly like the word “probably,” but he was being realistic.
“Will you be there yourself?”
“I’m always on the premises. But don’t indicate you know me.”
“I wasn’t planning on doing that, Mr. Rosenthal. It would open me up for speculation don’t you think?”
He only grunted. “I’ll pay you on receipt of your report. One week from today. If you feel you need more time, we can discuss it as we go.”
He hung up. He may have said goodbye, but if he did I didn’t hear it.
I must say I was quailing somewhat. What had I got myself into? I knew nothing about making clothes, superior quality or otherwise. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get around that one. And Mr. Rosenthal hadn’t given me any suggestions. “Convince him.” Great. Very helpful. What bothered me more was the ethics of operating as a spy. You have to gain people’s trust and then possibly betray them. I wished Mr. Gilmore was here to talk about this. I wondered how he knew Rosenthal.
I returned to my desk. Neither assignment had brought delight to my heart, but they still needed a proper contract. Maybe I should stick to retrieving lost pets. There was usually happiness at the end. Usually, but not always. Sometimes the pet was dead.
Time to go to the morgue.